


It's All Gonna End

by romanticalgirl



Series: I Must Be Lonely [6]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4027030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's never easy, and sometimes it's harder than you ever thought it could be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's All Gonna End

Mickey knocks on Ian’s door, but there’s no answer. He frowns and pulls out his phone, texting as he walks the few feet down the hall to his apartment. He knows Ian’s working on a couple of big projects for school, plus working and Mickey’s schedule has been busy since they’re in the process of finishing up the problem child house – finally – and starting on gutting another one. Still, other than a couple of texts a few days ago, they’ve been missing each other, and Mickey’s starting to wonder if maybe Ian’s trying to tell him something.

He’s about to go into his apartment when Ian’s door opens. He starts to say something, but stops when Lip comes out. Mickey must make some sound though, or maybe Lip senses him, or maybe he’s looking for Mickey. As it is, he tosses something at Mickey, and it’s pure instinct to reach out and catch it.

“That isn’t an open invitation.”

Mickey looks at the keys in his hand. “I’m not following.”

“His med dose crapped out on him, and he’s not willing to go in and see his doctor yet. I can’t check on him every day, and I figured if you’re still fucking or, hell, even just a decent human being you’d be willing.”

“Or you thought it might scare me off?”

Lip smirks, which tells Mickey everything he needs to know, makes him want to punch Lip, but instead he just tightens his hand around the keys, feeling the teeth bite into his palm. “Those are Ian’s, by the way, so don’t think it means anything.”

Mickey hums thoughtfully, though he knows he’s glaring at Lip. “I wonder how it is that Ian’s so great, and you’re such a complete and utter dick.”

“I’m just lucky, I guess. And you don’t know Ian at all if you think he’s just sunshine and roses.”

“Are we done?” Part of Mickey’s palm has gone numb, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he was close to drawing blood.

“Ian’s more than my brother.” For the first time Lip’s voice sounds authentic, less pompous. “He’s my best friend.”

“Well, shit. I’d hate to see how you treat your enemies.”

Lip’s laugh is sharp and his smirk twists his mouth. “Do us all a favor and cut and run now before you fuck him up any more. He deserves better than that.”

“Better than me, you mean?”

“Yeah, actually.” Lip nods, not looking away. “I do.”

“I’m not going to let you try and bully me out of his life. Because you know what? Ian’s my friend too. He’s not just someone I fuck.”

“Dealing with him like this is _hard_. He’s had people he’s been with who said they could handle it. Said it wouldn’t change anything. They were wrong. Not on purpose, because Ian is a great guy. But they were and every time it tore him apart. It made shit worse, and it’s already bad enough.”

“Even if it was too much, I wouldn’t fuck off on him while he was going through all of this. Whoever those other guys were, I’m not them. I’m not _like_ them. I may be a thug from the south side, may be from the wrong side of the tracks from even the fucking Gallaghers, but I’m not going to desert him.”

Lip stares at Mickey for a long time before nodding. Mickey gets the impression it costs him. “I’m trusting you, and I don’t trust anybody when it comes to him, when it comes to this. If you hurt him, I’ll fuck you up so badly you won’t recognize yourself, and then when you think it’s all over and you let your guard down? You’re a dead man.”

Mickey doesn’t look away in the long moments before he nods in response. “Anything in particular I should look out for?”

“He’s never been suicidal, so you shouldn’t have to worry on that front. He’s just...Not Ian right now. It’s hard to explain.”

“Can I go in and see him?”

Lip shrugs. “I guess. Maybe it’s best to do it while I’m here. Just in case.”

“Really? I thought we just went through this.”

Lip’s mouth forms a thin line, his jaw tight. “Just in case.”

Something in his voice keeps Mickey from arguing any further. He goes over to Ian’s door and unlocks it. He chews on his lower lip as he goes inside. The apartment is only lit with ambient sunlight, which is pretty useless with night falling. Mickey turns on the light. The apartment feels empty, devoid of Ian’s energy.

Lip gestures to the bedroom, and Mickey goes down the short hallway. He leans against the door. Ian’s curled up in a blanket, facing toward the wall. Mickey just looks at him for a long moment, eyes moving over the slope of Ian’s shoulder to his waist, waist to ass, ass to thigh. He’s gorgeous, but he seems lifeless.

“You know, this isn’t how I wanted to get a key to your place.” He goes into the bedroom and sits on the edge of the bed, far enough away that he’s not crowding Ian. “Also, I have no intention of letting Lip be right. He needs to be wrong. Proven wrong. A lot. It may not do him any good, but I’ll enjoy the hell out of it.”

Lip snorts in the other room, but Mickey ignores him.

“I also have to admit that I thought it was physically impossible for you not to talk without a dick in your mouth. Guess Lip’s not the only one getting proven wrong here today, huh?”

He gets nothing, so he nods and stands up, walking out of the room and out of the apartment. He can see Lip grin as he walks past, looking vindicated. “I fucking knew it.”

Mickey turns back and looks at him. “I’m gonna get some shit from next door. You can head out whenever. I got this.”

**

Just because Ian doesn’t want to see or feel or hear doesn’t mean he can’t. He can. He can feel the weight of the world crushing him. Suffocating him. He can close his eyes and block out the sunlight, the pitying look on people’s faces. His family parades through like they’re paying their last respects, talking in low voice like they’re afraid to wake the dead.

That’s how Ian feels. He’s alive, but he’s dead. His heart beats, his brain’s apparently functioning, even if it doesn’t feel like it, and his lungs keep drawing breath. The living dead.

He’s numb. He can close his eyes but he can’t keep from hearing. Even with the blanket over his head – not the pillow, never the pillow, not after that one time – he can’t block out all of them talking about him in the next room, like the apartment isn’t small enough to hear a mouse fart in the kitchen.

They’re worried. He knows they’re worried. He doesn’t know what to do to stop them from worrying. They should be used to it by now, but he gets it. They don’t want to be. It’s probably better that they aren’t. Being used to it means they think it’s won – this traitor in his head.

He never hears Mickey when his family is there other than a few monosyllabic replies. Ian doesn’t think Mickey leaves every time, but maybe he does. Maybe that’s when he runs away and wishes he didn’t have to come back. He does though. Every time. He comes back at lunch and between jobs. He comes over when he gets off work at the club. He sits next to Ian and stretches his legs out in front of him, his back against the pillows propped in front of the headboard.

Mickey reads. Does crossword puzzles occasionally, saying the clues out loud. Ian’s not sure if it helps him think - maybe because he usually fills in the squares quickly afterward – or if he’s asking Ian, hoping for a response.

He never touches Ian, and Ian’s grateful. Or he would be if he could feel. Sometimes the sheet is too much against his skin, he thinks he’d want to crawl out of his own body if a person actually touched him. Mickey or otherwise. Ian’s not quite sure how long it’s been. Maybe a week. Maybe two. But it feels like it’s been a lifetime. He never really remembers what came before when he’s like this. His head is too cloudy, muddy, dirty. He has intrusive thoughts, but they’re vague and unformed, so he doesn’t worry about acting on them. He doesn’t want to die so much as he just wants it to _end_. There’s a distinction in there somewhere; he’s just not sure what it is or how to find it.

It must be a weekend because the whole family traipses through one at a time. Sometimes Ian thinks it’s unfair that they all have Frank for a father and they’re all fucked up, but Ian is fucked for life. Maybe Clayton’s just as fucked up . Maybe he just hides it better. Either way, it’s Monica who did this. Her genes. Maybe all the alcohol in Frank’s system changed it, changed them so Ian’s the only one with the target. A bullseye in his brain.

Maybe he sleeps. Maybe he zones out, but the next time he’s aware, the bedroom is bathed in the purple and gold glow of sunset, and the only sound is the rattle of pans from the kitchen. He likes the quiet, but it lets him wonder. Wonder if it’s Mickey out there or if he’s wised up and forgotten the name Ian Gallagher. Most of the time Ian’s selfish and hopes it’s him. Sometimes he’s not an asshole and wishes he were man enough to kick Mickey out for his own good..

The other thing Ian can’t block out is smells. Butter and cheese, chocolate and sugar. They don’t make sense in any combination, but when he opens his eyes he sees Mickey coming into the bedroom with a plate piled high with grilled cheese sandwiches and what Ian assumes are chocolate chip cookies.

“You know, you family loves you a lot, which is great, but the fuckers can’t take a hint worth a damn.” He sits on the bed, legs crossed beneath him. Despite his light tone, Ian can tell Mickey’s tense. “You fucking falling asleep on them didn’t faze them in the slightest.”

He sets the plate on the bed in front of him, and the smells are overwhelming, almost overpowering.

“So, I’ve never made cookies before, but how fucking hard can it be, right? It’s a fucking mix, and I can crack an egg and stir.” He shrugs and picks one up off the plate and looks at it dubiously. “You think it looks okay?”

“Smells good.”

Mickey’s eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t comment. The only things Ian has said since this started have been ‘go away’ and ‘fuck off’. “By the way, remind me to hook up the smoke detector again.” He sniffs it. “Probably taste like ass.” Mickey laughs. “Of course, I’ve been known to eat ass a time or two.” His grin slants and he glances at Ian. “So who knows, maybe I’ll like ‘em either way.”

Ian doesn’t laugh. Laughing takes too much energy. Laughing hurts. Laughing is feeling and feeling is too fucking hard. Even the smile he manages costs more than he really wants to pay, but it quirks up the corner of his mouth without his permission.

“Okay.” Mickey looks at the cookie again. Ian doesn’t plan on reaching out. He just does it, hand weak on Mickey’s wrist, but Mickey doesn’t resist at all as Ian pulls it closer. Ian nibbles the edge of the cookie and closes his eyes. He hears Mickey hiss softly. “Shit. Did I kill you? Lip’s going to kick my ass if I killed you. And ‘death by cookie’ is going to look fucking ridiculous on a tombstone. We’ll have to lie. What do you think? Samurai? Ninjas? Secret assassins? Secret samurai ninja assassins?”

“Thought...” Ian has to lick his lips and swallow, his throat too dry. “Thought I didn’t shut up.”

“You do. But right now you’re not holding up your end of the bargain, so someone’s got to do it for you.”

“Sorry.”

“Nah. It’s cool. I have a lovely voice.”

“B’shit. I’ve heard you sing.”

“Fuck you. It’s _lovely_.” He raises his eyebrow, daring Ian to say something. “I guess the cookie didn’t kill you, huh?” He takes his own bite. “I added extra chocolate chips because why the fuck not?”

“Diabetes?”

“Yeah, because I’m worried about _that_ being the death of me.” He puts the cookie down. “Grilled cheese with turkey. Want a bite?”

Ian closes his eyes and exhales. “Why are you still here?”

“It’s my day off.”

“Not today. At all.”

“Why are you so convinced I’m going to leave?”

“Because I”m a mess.”

“I’m no ball of sunshine, dude.” Mickey holds the half sandwich in front of Ian. “Two bites. I dare you.”

Ian smiles a little and opens his mouth obediently. Mickey holds the sandwich just out of his reach so Ian has to shift closer to take the bite. “Asshole,” he mutters as he chews.

“You surprised?”

Ian sighs and closes his eyes. Despite his assurance, Ian knows there’s no way Mikey’s not going to leave like everyone else has. He’s going to go to work one day or one night and not come back. 

“Can I ask you a question?” Mickey’s voice is soft, uncertain. Ian nods slightly. He can still taste the thick sharpness of the cheese on his tongue. It’s strange to feel flavor, to still recognize the underlying sweetness of the of the chocolate. “What do you feel like this?”

“Nothing.”

“Is it the absence of feeling or just not caring?”

“Wrapped in cotton, drowning in it, crowding into my throat and filling me with it.”

“Okay, that’s kind of gross.”

Ian snorts. “One way to put it, I suppose.”

“When you get better, how does it feel?”

“Not like that.”

“Dick.”

“Like a shower washing away layers of dirt and grime and sweat. Like someone’s pumping oxygen into the room, and I can breathe again. I remember how.”

Mickey takes a bit of his sandwich then offers it to Ian again. It’s too much, too rich, but he can taste it, smell it, and his stomach growls. “Just a bite?”

“Toast.”

“Butter?”

Ian shakes his head and closes his eyes. He feels Mickey get off the bed, though he leaves his plate there, because he's an asshole. Ian’s stomach growls again. He opens his eyes and sighs, reaching for the sandwich and taking another bite. He knows it’s a sign he’s getting better, but usually before better, he gets worse, and the thought of Mickey going through that makes him sick to his stomach, hates that more than knowing he’s going to drown in it himself.

**

Mickey knows he’s doing a shit job at work. Both jobs but his focus is on Ian. The job at the club doesn’t take much, but the job at the house is suffering. He hasn’t fucked anything up but he can see his boss looking at him. She finally calls him aside at the house they’re working on. She leans against the work table, her brow furrowed.

“Everything okay, Mickey?”

“Just...personal stuff. I know I’m fucking up.”

“You’re not fucking up. You’re just not working like you usually do. And I really don't need you nailgunning yourself to a wall.”

“It’s just something personal. Mickey shove his hands in his pockets. “You want me to take some time off?”

“I really can’t afford for you to, but if you think you need to, I’ll understand.”

“A friend...my…”

She laughs softly. “I don’t care who you date, Mickey. I care how hard you work.” She smiles. “And if anyone on this crew has a problem with it, they have a problem with me.”

Mickey nods, sighing in something like relief that takes a weight off his chest. “My boyfriend is sick. I’m…”

“Do you want some time off?”

Mickey shakes his head. “There’s nothing I can do for him. I’m just worried. Frustrated that I _can’t_ do anything, you know?”

“Cancer?”

“Jesus, no. Fuck.” Mickey swallows hard. “It’s not fatal. Just….”

“It’s okay, You don’t have to tell me. How about we cut you to have days too days a week You can use your sick time to make up the shortfall.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to fuck you over.”

She smiles. “I’m sure. You’ll just have to work twice as hard on those days.”

“Deal. Hopefully it won’t be too long. Whatever days are best for you?”

“Let me look over the schedule. For now, go home and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You’re…”

“You ask me if I’m sure one more time, _I’m_ going to use the nail gun on you.”

Mickey bites his lip to keep from smiling. “Got it, boss?”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

Mickey doesn’t argue. He grabs his shit and heads for the train and home. He goes to his apartment and changes before he goes to Ian’s. The lights are all off so he turns the living room lamp on and heads straight for the bedroom. 

The water and the toast he’d left out before going to work is still sitting on the nightstand untouched. Ia’s back is top the door, covers pulled up to his chin.

“Hey,” Mickey says softly. “Can I climb in with you?”

“Go away,” Ian’s voice is rough and scratchy.

“So, that's a no?”

“Go the _fuck_ away.”

“Okay.” Mickey shrugs and goes into the living room and sits in one of the chairs, propping his feet on the other one. He grabs his book and opens it. He’s on the fourth book since Ian’s depression hit, his pills stopped working, the combination of both. He’s not completely sure what happened or what it means other than Ian’s like this.”

“Get _out_.”

Mickey glances up from his book. Ian’s turned over facing the living room. His eyes are flat, his face devoid of emotion.

“Get out.”

“Told your brother I’d look out for you.”

“Get _out_.”

“Okay.” Mickey stands up, closing his book. “I’ll check on you later. Whether you want it or not.”

“Fuck off.”

Mickey leaves the apartment and goes back to his place. He debates calling Lip, but concentrate son his book instead. Tries to. Fails. “Fuck.” He put the book down and goes into his bedroom, changing into his gym clothes. He hasn’t been in he doesn’t know how long, so he takes his phone and both sets of keys with him. 

He works on the treadmill for an hour and then the vertical knee raise for a half hour. He’s sweaty, sore and tired. His only workout lately has been sex, and that’s been put on hold through Ian’s depression. Looking at the rowing machine, he decides against it and climbs the stairs to the apartment as a cool down.

He stops at Ian’s door and then walks to his own place, showering and changing into the clothes he’d worn earlier. He unlocks Ian’s door and goes inside. The lamp’s still on, and it’s dark enough that Mickey’s glad he hadn’t turned it off when he’d left. Ian’s bedroom is dark, the curtains pulled closed.

Mickey stops in the doorway. “How do you feel about a shower?”

“Are you a fucking idiot. Fuck. Off.”

“No.” Ian’s head moves like he wants to glare at Mickey. “No. I’m not going to to fuck off. I’ll leave you alone. I won’t come in the bedroom except to bring you stuff to eat and drink. But I’m not fucking off. Whether you know it or believe it, Ian, i’m your goddamned friend. So you’re fucking stuck with me.”

Ian scoffs. “Thought you were my boyfriend.”

“I still am if you want me to be. But you seem like you need a friend a hell of a lot more right now.”

Ian turns over and Mickey can see his eyes glistening in the light from the living room. “I hate this. I hate this so much. I wish I could cut it out of me.. Disconnect parts of my brain that are fucked up.”

“We’re all fucked, Ian. Maybe you’re kind of lucky.”

“Lucky?” Ian snaps.

“Whats wrong with me can’t be helped with a pill. Do I wish you didn’t have this? Do I wish you didn’t have to deal with this? Yeah, I do, because I hate to see you hurting. But this is also part of who you are.”

“Maybe I was better before this.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll never know. All I know is you. This you. And you’re who I want to be with.”

Ian’s quiet for a long time and then frowns. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Well, I’m an asshole, I’m violent. I have internalized homophobia. Sort of the whole ‘what are you rebelling against, what have you got’ thing. Basically I’m exactly what you expect from a guy who grew up on the south side in a piece of shit house with a piece of shit house with a completely piece of shit dad.”

Ian’s mouth slowly curves into a smile. “I would have been so into you when I was younger. Of course you probably would have beat the shit out of me.”

“Only because I wanted to fuck you and was too afraid to”

Ian sighs and it seems like it takes all the air out of him. “I hate that the meds just stop. Most of the time I don’t notice until I can’t get out of bed.”

Mickey walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, brushing Ian’s hair back. It’s short enough that it doesn’t feel lank and greasy other than his bangs. “But if you see the doctor?”

“Yeah. They’ll switch my meds or up my dose and it gets worse. Everything goes gray, washes out. Swallow more cotton, breathe through water. Hopefully I adjust to them and don’t have to go through it again.” He turns his head so the hang Mickey’s using to pet his hair touches his face. “It’s swinging the other way. I’ll be fine. And then I won’t be.” He laughs and the sound is bitter to his own ears. “That’s not true though. Won’t ever be fine.”

Mickey traces Ian’s cheek with a barely-there touch. “Can I lie down with you?”

“Why aren’t you running the fuck away?”

Mickey rolls his eyes and moves his hand to Ian’s shoulder, pushing him onto his back. He moves over him, braced above him. He holds kIan’s gaze for a long time. “Because asshole,” the words are barely above a whisper. “I’m falling in love with you.”

Ian chokes on a breath, and Mickey’s breath catches in his throat., He didn’t intend to say it, sure as fuck never intended to feel it. But it’s the thought that Ian doesn’t want it, doesn’t feel it that makes his chest ache.

“This.” Ian licks his lips, not looking away. Something hard and scared tightens in his chest, closing around his heart. “This doesn’t get better. Doesn’t go away. _I’m_ not going to get better.”

MIckey sighs and presses his lips together. He nods once. “Okay, It may take me a while, but I can take a hint. He moves off Ian, off the bed. “Ill be in the other room.”

“What?” Ian sits up, swaying slightly. “Mick.”

“It’s cool. I get it. I’ll call Lip. Tell him...whatever. Let him think I’m the asshole he thinks I am.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s cool, Gallagher.”

“What are you talking about? _Mickey_.”

Mickey shakes his head and heads for the door. Setting Ian’s keys on the coffee table as he goes past.

**

“Lip?” His voice sounds strange to his own ear. Too high. Panicked. “Lip? I fucked up.”

“Ian What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Ian? Talk to me.” He can hear Lip moving around, the frantic sounds. He can recognize them. Covers. Clothes. Shoes. Keys. “Ian? Where’s Mickey?”

“Gone.”

“Gone? What the _fuck_? He fucking swore up and down he wasn’t going to fucking bail on you. I’m going to kill the son-of-a-bitch.”

“He...I need you. I need.” Ian struggles to breathe, his lungs too small to hold enough air. “PLease?”

“I’m on my way, Ian. Hang on, okay. Hang on for me.”

Ian hangs up and closes his eyes tightly. His brain is going a million miles an hour like his mania only he’s stuck in a feedback loop. Mickey’s name is on repeat so Ian can’t even try to figure out what happened, what he said, what he did. He stares at the door, weight pressing down on him, flattening him, reducing the world to nothing.

He doesn’t notice when Lip comes in, doesn’t hear anything until Lip actually squats down in front of him. “Ian? Hey, Ian?”

Ian blinks several times to focus. “I fucked up, Lip.”

“What did you do, Ian. Did you take too many pills> Do we need a doctor” Ian’s eyes unfocus again, so he blinks. He’s worrying his family again. Fucking up again. Fucking up everything. “ _Ian._ ”

“Talk to him, Lip? Tell him I’m sorry. I did something wrong.”

“Ian, it’s not your fault.”

“It _is_.”

“Ian. It’s not. It’s him. He fucked up. He couldn’t handle it.”

“No. No, LIp. I did it. _I_ did it.”

“You’re _sick_ , Ian.”

“Need to see my doctor..”

Lip sighs in what’s probably a mixture of annoyance and relief. “I’ll call and make an appointment for you. We’ll get you taken care of.”

“Don’t...don’t go after Mickey. Please?”

“Ian…”

“Promise me, Lip.”

Lip takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Okay.:

“Promise.”

“Fine. Fine.”

“Say it.”

“Jesus, fine. I promise.” He straightens up. “Let me take you home tonight, okay?”

It takes a moment, but finally Ian nods. He won’t sleep, but being in his old bed will be good. Safe.”

Not Mickey.

“We’ll get you new meds that work. And a shower. You fucking reek.”

**

He doesn’t go to the Fairy Tail. It’s too much a reminder of Ian and it’s not really Mickey’s style. There’s a smaller place, more of a bar than a club, a block or two away called “The Glory Hole” that lives up to its name. He goes to the bar and orders a beer and a shot. He downs the whiskey and taps the bar for another one.

“Are you fucking serious?” Mandy slides onto the stool next to his. “I mean, really, Mickey?”

He’s not drunk enough for this yet, but he called her so he doesn’t have a choice. “I think Ian and I are done.”

“What?” That brings her attention back to him from whatever she’d been staring at in the back corner. She capes at him then punches his arm hard. “What the fuck? Because he’s sick?”  
MIckey takes the second shot and swallows it, wishing it would burn through the thickness in his throat. “Because I told him that I’m in love with him and he told me to go.” The glare Mandy’s giving him fades into something else he’s afraid is pity. “What a fucking…” He swallows and shakes his head, biting his lip hard. “Better now than later, I guess. Fucking ridiculous to think that I was anything...that I had anything to offer.”

“That’s not true, Mick.”

“Yeah, it is. Work two jobs to live in a place I can’t really afford. Don’t have a life. Ian’s a fucking romantic. Dates and cards and fucking flowers, True love and soulmates. He believes all of that bullshit. And even if he doesn’t...Anyway,I thought you should hear it from me. I know you guys are friends now and shit and that’s good. He needs a friend. Just...just don’t play matchmaker, okay? I don’t need pity. I was fine before he came along.”

“YOu were a grumpy, miserable hermit.” She looks around the bar. “Whoa. No.”

“No what?”

“You’re not picking up one of these guys. YOu’re _not_. Don’t make me start yelling that I’m your wife and you’ve got fucking syphilis. Or I’ll tell them about your real wife.”

“I don’t want to fuck anybody. I just...didn’t want to be at home. Didn’t want to be alone, okay? Even in a crowd is better than knowing he’s next door and he might as well be across the world.”

She calms down and nods. “I’m sorry.”

He nods and signals for two shots. “We should toast to a fucking Milkovich falling in love in true fucked-up Milkovich style. Least I didn’t go Terry’s route and just knock someone up.”

“You’d be the pregnant one. Ian fucks you.”

“Fucked.” Mickey does his shot and finishes his beer in four long swallows. “Ian _fucked_ me. Past tense.” He laughs, choking on the sound. “What do you know. Guess I did learn something at school after all.”

Mandy reaches out and rests her hand on his. “I bet it’s all just a misunderstanding. Because he’s not taking his meds. He’s depressed. He’s not going to believe someone loves him. He might even think you didn’t mean it, that you were just saying it to make him feel better.”

“Make him feel better? That...I’d say I was falling in love with him to make him fucking _feel better_?”

“He’s not really thinking clearly.” Mandy sighs. “Let me take you home, okay?”

“Fuck.” Mickey scrubs his face with his hands. “I was happy.”

“You were miserable before him. Shut up.” She pushes money across the bar. “Come on.”

Mickey lets her drive him home, the whiskey kicking in about halfway there.

“You’re a fucking lightweight nowadays.”

“Without Terry haven’t had a reason.” He closes his eyes. “Shit, Mands. This fucking sucks.”

“He loves you.”

“Not sure he’s going to let himself if he does. He doesn’t want me around.”

“You’re such a fucking defeatist.” She slams the car into park in a no parking zone. “Come on, asswipe.” She helps him out of the car and into the elevator, pushing the button for his floor. Mickey leans against the wall of the elevator and closes his eyes. “Promise me you won’t do anything until he’s better, okay? Talk to him when he’s stable. I think you owe him that. Hell, owe it to both of you.”

The elevator dings and Mickey pushes off the wall and Mandy catches him before he overbalances. “I got it.” He jerks his arm away from her, catching himself on the wall. 

MIckey?”

Mickey looks up, tensing when he sees Lip. “Yeah?” He glances at Ian’s door. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Now.” Lip pushes away from the door. “He’s atg home.”

“This is his home.”

“No. This is where he lives. He’s at home.” Before Mickey can react, alcohol slowing him down, Lip punches him hard. Mickey falls back, staggering to keep his feet Lip comes after him again, getting another punch in and sending Mickey sprawling. Lip starts to go down to go after Mickey, but Mandy grabs his shoulder and jerks him around, hitting Lip hard.

Mickey wipes his bloody nose with the back of his hand and get to his feet. Lip’s looking at Mandy with one eye, a hand over the other. Mickey tackles him as Lip calls Mandy a bitch. For that, Mickey pins him to the ground, straddling Lip’s stomach and starts hitting him over and over, hurt and frustration and fear fueling every swing.

“Mickey!” Mandy grabs his arm and holds it in an iron grip, “Stop.”

Mickey sniffs, the hot copper taste of blood flooding his throat. He shifts back onto his heels then gets to his feet. Lip doesn’t move, watching Mickey through an eye that’s already swelling shut. Mickey sneers. “You don’t know shit.”

“I know what Ian was like when he called me, when I got here. I fucking warned you.”

“Get the fuck out of my sight,” MIckey snarls. “And _fuck you_.”

He digs his keys out of his pocket and unlocks his door. Mandy looks between Mickey and Lip. Mickey barks out a rough laugh.

“Go ahead.” He jerks his head toward Lip. “Fuck up your life if you want I’m fucking done.”

He slams the door on both of them, locking it behind him before he falls against it, letting his head hit the wood hard. The pain doesn’t clear his head, but it does push him over the edge. He slides down to the floor and buries his head against his knees, tears burning through the denim of his jeans.

**

Ian can tell he’s slept when he wakes up. He walks down the stairs, hanging onto the wall for support.  
He can tell he’s been asleep a lot longer than just a few hours by the look on everyone’s face when he finally reaches the kitchen. Debbie, Carl, and Fiona’s eyes skim over him. No matter how long he was in bed, they’ve all seen him much worse off. Massive depression, scary mania, one course of medicine that sent him to the hospital for a transfusion to replace the blood he’d spent twelve hours vomiting.

“Pancakes?” Fiona asks.

“No thanks.” Ian steals Carl’s glass of orange juice and gulps it down. It’s slightly tart and clears some of the fog from his head. “Where’s Lip?”

“Upstairs sleeping. You’ve been out for three days. Been on shifts.”

“Lip asked me to call the clinic when you woke up,” Debbie says. “We’ll get you in with them today.” She gets up from the table and goes into the living room before Ian can say anything.

“Lip’s not feeling well right now.” Fiona gathers her plate and heads to the sink. Something in her voice sends panic up Ian’s spine. He glares at Carl, since he’s the only one left at the table. “What did he do?”

Carl grins widely. “Got the shit beat out of him. By Mickey _and_ his sister.”

“Mandy?”

“Yeah.” Carl’s grin widens alarmingly. “She’s upstairs. Banging the shit out of him a different way.”

“Carl!” Fiona snaps as Ian wrinkles his nose. 

“It’s _true_.”

“Shit. I need to see Mickey.”

“You need to see the _doctor_.” Fiona states. “Then we’ll talk about Mickey.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re okay right _now_ , Ian. The depression’s waning. But how long is that going to last? You need a new prescription.” Fiona’s face is set.

Ian’s own expression hardens. “I need to see Mickey.”

“Ian Clayton Gallagher.” Fiona doesn’t yell, doesn’t snap. Doesn’t even raise her voice. “You are going to the doctor. You want to make sure your relationship with Mickey is okay, then you need to get on some new fucking meds. This doesn’t last, Ian. You know that.”

Ian grits his teeth. Debbie walks up to him and touches his arm with her fingertips. “YOu don’t want another manic swing. Last time was pretty bad.”

The last time he’d gone through this and his meds had stopped working, he’d had a full blown manic episode complete with hallucinations and an arrest for prostitution when he’d propositioned a cop. Ian swallows hard and nods jerkily. “Okay. Clinic. And then how long am I numb? How long until they work? How long until I’m even close to normal?”

“You’ll be closer,” Debbie reminds him. 

Ian hates feeling this way, feeling like he’s the child rather than Debbie or Carl or even Liam. He’s the one who has to be taken care of and babied. “Fuck. Fine. Where’s my phone?”

“It’s at your apartment,” Lip says as he comes down the stairs. Ian looks up at him and the sudden anxiety from the other night floods over him again.

“Is Mickey okay? Jesus, Lip, I told you to leave him alone!”

“He’s fine.”

Lip’s flippant tone infuriates Ian. “Goddamn it, Lip!” He slams his hand on the table and Debbie’s juice splashes out over the edge of her glass. “You’re not my fucking keeper!”

“You called _me_.”

“To talk me down, not to take over. Not to go after him.”

“He made this all worse.”

“He told him he loved him.” Mandy’s sitting on one of the bottom stairs and, even though she says it quietly, it feels like it echoes through the whole room. “And Ian told him to leave.”

Something faint hovers at the back of Ian’s consciousness, and he knows Mandy’s right. “No” he whispers.

Mandy shrugs. “He hasn’t gotten that drunk since we celebrated our dad dying. Before that, it was after the beating he took when our dad found out Mickey was gay. He hated my dad more than anything in the world, so I’d guess he must love you a lot.”

“Give me your phone, Lip.”

Mandy smirks and shakes her head. “Why? So you can call him and say what? Hey, I heard you said you love me. Cool. Sorry about the whole rejection thing and for my brother trying to beat the shit out of you. We good?”

Ian sinks back onto a chair. “He probably hates me.”

“Do you actually know my brother at all? Just take care of yourself. He’s not going anywhere.” Something that’s not quite a smile curves her lips. “Mickey’s not going anywhere. I can promise you that. But you’d better keep bruiser here away from him. “

Ian looks at Lip. He’s sure his anger shows on his face. “He’s not going anywhere near him.”

Debbie pushes a piece of paper at him. “Appointment’s at eleven.”

“Thanks.” Ian stands up and heads back up the stairs. It doesn’t take long for him to get ready. It’s going to take more than one shower before Ian feels clean again, before his head clears. Right now though, all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears, Mandy’s voice. Mickey loves him. Loved him. And Ian had missed it. missed hearing it honest and unfiltered, not tainted by Ian’s fucking brain.

He dries off and gets dressed, energy that seems foreign buzzing under his sin. It’s not the same as the blood pounding demand of mania. It’s a need. A need to make things right, to show Mickey that he’s okay. He’s worthy what Mickey thinks he is, he’s _who_ Mickey thinks he is.

Fiona and Debbie end up being the ones who go with him to the clinic. He doesn’t want to see Lip, doesn’t trust himself enough not to lose his temper. Even with calling ahead, he ends up waiting an additional three hours before he can be seen. He sends his sisters home, but he keeps Fiona’s cell to call when he’s done.

It’s the same doctor he’s had before, but ian’s under no illusion that he’ memorable, different from the hundreds of people on the south side, all too pour to go anywhere else. “Ian.” She sits opposite him. ‘Burned through another med, hmm?”

“Lucky me.”

She flips several pages of his chart. “We’ve got you on a four drug cocktail. Can you tell me how the symptoms manifested this time?”

“Same as always. i was fine and then I wasn’t. Breathing and then choking. Treading water and then drowning. Depression this time. Weight on my chest.”

“How were your moods? Were you noticing any changes in their cycles? Longer or shorter time between lower points?”

He shakes his hand and his hands shake on the tabletop. “I’ve been good. Everything’s been so good.” He feels tears sting his eyes. “I’ve been fucking happy.”

“Ian. Ian.” She reaches across the table and puts her hand on top of his. “Sometimes your body adjusts. That’s all. It’s a tolerance. Since it was a depressive episode, we’re going to try increasing your Wellbutrin and see if that combats it without having to switch meds completely. We’re going to bump it up and and have you come back in a a couple of weeks, and we’ll evaluate, okay?”

He nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Make sure you’re sticking to your routine. Eating. Exercising. Okay/’ She gets up and goes over to the cabinet. “I’ll give you some samples and a prescription. I want you to note any changes - good or bad - and I want to see you back sooner if things get worse or don’t improve. Got it?”

He nods again. “Yeah. I was just...I was really happy, you know?”

“I do, but remember, Ian, you were on this cocktail for over 18 months. Your stabilization periods are getting longer. We’re getting there, which is great since we’re staying away from lithium.” She brings a bottle of pills over to him. “How long before you came in this time?”

“Almost three weeks.”

“That’s getting better too. I’m very proud.” He flips her off and she laughs. “All of your meds, remember. And stick to your routine.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She slides a business card across the table. “Call me before three weeks if it happens again, okay?:

“YOu mean when?”

“Don’t argue with me. I’m a doctor.”

He leaves and goes to the pharmacy and refills all of his pills, knowing he’s going to have to pick up extra shifts at the club to make up his shortfall this month, bigger than expected now with a higher dose.

He texts and simply tells Debbie he’s walking home and then plays with the numbers, wondering if he can remember mickey’s number. He doesn’t know if he even knew it before other than as a contact in his phone. Besides, what would he say? What could he say?

Debbie replies that they’re all at Patsy’s for dinner and he should join them. He begs off, telling her he’s tired, which is the truth. But instead of going to bed once he gets home, he grabs his keys off his dresser where Lip put them, leaves Fiona’s phone on the table and heads home.

The train takes forever, and the elevator’s out of service, so he makes his way up the stairs slowly. He’s already expended more energy today than he has in the past few weeks combined, and part of him wants to just crawl into bed and do this tomorrow.

Part of him. But most of him is desperate for Mickey.

He gets to Mickey’s door and rests his head on it, catching his breath before knocking. He counts seconds, breaths, each number making his heart pound, his blood race. He hears the lock and takes a deep breath. He starts to say something, but everything disappears when he sees Mickey. “Jesus Christ. Did Lip do that to you?”

Mickey reaches up and touches his nose. The skin around his eyes is purple and black making the blue stand out even brighter. “Just tell me he looks worse.”

Mickey sounds nasal and from the bruising, Ian can only assume Lip had broken Mickey’s nose. He reaches up, his fingers not quite touching him. “Who reset it for you?”

“I was drunk enough to do it myself. WAsn’t the first time. Won’t be the last.”

Ian shakes his head. “He looks much, much worse.”

“Good.” Mickey nods and lifts his eyebrows. “Well?”

Ian closes his eyes and swallows, finally looking at MIckey. He reaches out and touches Mickey’s cheek, lightly rubbing it with the pad of his thumb. “Can I come in?”

Mickey looks like he’s going to argue, but he eventually steps back. There are three boxes on the floor, two completely filled with books, and the other about a quarter full.

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning out some books.” Mickey goes back over to the bookcase and sits down on the floor. Despite the boxes, all the cases are still full to overflowing.

“Why?”

“Read ‘em. Don’t want ‘em anymore.”

Ian looks in the boxes. “You’ve read all of these?”

“What do you think I buy them for?” Mickey sounds slightly defensive. “Their decorating potential?”

“No, just…”Ian hates how nervous he feels, how awkward it is.

“I buy them at a used book store, take them back there.” Mickey pulls a handful of books down and looks through them, putting all but one in the box. “How come you’re in this part of town? Thought your family had you on lockdown or some shit.”

“Went to the clinic today and saw the doctor.”

“Yeah? Good for you.” It sounds genuine, but it also sounds distant. Ian sighs and sits on the floor so he can look Mickey in the eye. 

“Did I ruin everything?”

“Don’t know what you mean.”

“Buyllshit.” Ian sighs. “I just want to know if you want me around or not.”

“Me wanting you around isn’t the issue.”

Ian nods. “I pushed you away. I’m not at my best when I’m off my meds.”

“Yeah. That might be a little bit of an understatement.”

Ian smiles. “Yeah. Maybe.” He stops and then sighs. “Do you want me to go?”

“Do you want to go?”

Ian shakes his head before Mickey’s even done asking. “No. No. I don’t. I want to be with you. So much.” He watches Mickey’s face. sees emotions flicker through his eyes, though he’s unsure what they are. Doubt? Confusion? Desire? Mickey’s sigh seems to come from deep inside of him, and Ian braces himself.

“Well, quit sitting around then, and get me a beer or something.”

**

The relief in Ian’s eyes is almost painful, and Mickey has to wonder how many people have left him because of all of this. Too many, obviously, but Mickey thinks just one might have been too many, Of course, if they hadn’t left him, Mickey knows he wouldn’t be here. With Ian.

Of course, with Ian right now is different than where he was. Even if Ian was sick, not himself, the rejection still stings. Mickey has never said anything like that to anyone and it feels like the words are still hanging in the air without a place to land, but not anywhere close to Ian.

Ian comes out with a beer and sinks down on the floor across from Mickey. “So, how do you decide which ones to keep?”

“Depends on a lot of things.” He knows Ian’s not putting him on the spot, but he still feels slightly defensive.

“LIke what?”

There’s a genuine curiosity, so Mickey answers him. “How much I liked it. What it was about. If I think I’ll want to read it again. Though I kind of suck at that, because I have so many still to read.”

“I don’t have anything like that.” Ian nods as if he’s thinking over what Mickey said. “I mean, I’ve got stuff, but nothing like that. Nothing that’s just mine that matters.”

“You’ve got shit that matters though. Family. Photos. Memories. I’ve got shit memories. About the only thing I’ve got is Mandy, and we’re not the fucking Waltons. Hell, we’re closer to the Manson family. Books are an escape. Lives I can live without having to suffer through the pitfalls and consequences. Things I’ll never do, never see. A ‘what if’.”

Ian stretches out on his side, tracing the spine of a book and not quite looking at Mickey. “What would you change about your life? If you could?”

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t know. Everything’s got good and bad, no matter what it is. Risks, problems. FAiry tales don’t exist. Your club excepted.”

“I don’t know. North side, straight, money. Sounds like an easy life.” Ian shrugs. “Not being crazy sounds really good.” He picks up the book he’d been touching and opens it, thumbing through the pages. Mickey just watches, staring at Ian’s large hands, long fingers.

“How come you don’t have a beer?”

“New meds. I’m not supposed to drink at all, but until I know how these are working, I definitely have to hold off.” He fans the pages, not looking at Mickey. Mickey reaches out and puts his hand over Ian’s, stilling the nervous gesture.

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, I was extra crazy this time. Messed up your life, screamed at you. Made you think I didn’t want you around.”

Mickey rubs his thumb over Ian’s knuckles. “You hungry?”

Ian’s eyes go immediately to Mickey’s mouth. “Yeah.”

“Your sex drive is back?”

“No. Not really. Doesn’t mean I’m not willing to try. Pretty sure you’ve still got yours, right?”

“How about we start off with some scrambled eggs?” Mickey gets to his feet and holds his hand out to Ian, tugging him up to stand. “Come on.”

Ian takes a step forward, body flush with Mickey’s. Mickey can feel the hard beat of his heart, feel it speed up as Ian stands directly in front of him. “Hey, Mick.”

MIckey’s breath hitches at the low purr of Ian’s voice. He reaches up, curving his hand along Ian’s jaw. “You’ve lost weight.” His thumb traces the hollow of Ian’s cheek.

“You stayed..” This time Ian’s voice is soft, hushed.

“Yeah.” Mickey’s voice is just as quiet. “I wasn’t going to leave you. Not that night. I just had a rough day and took things too personally.”

Ian reaches out and strokes Mickey’s lower lip with his tongue. “Can I kiss you?”

“You want to?”

Ian bites his lower lip and nods, his eyes still on Mickey’s mouth. “Yeah. I do.”

“I’m not gonna stop you. Just watch the nose.”

Ian smiles and leans in, barely brushing his lips over Mickey’s. He pulls back just for a moment then moves in again. This time it’s a slow kiss, warm and thorough. Mickey’s heart is beating even faster when Ian pulls back this time, his pulse thudding in his throat. Settling his hands on Mickey’s hips, Ian turns them and gui8des Mickey backwards, moving closer until the back of Mickey’s legs hit the couch.

“What do you have in mind?”

Ian kisses Mickey again and shuts him up, his tongue licking into Mickey’s mouth. He wants to keep his eyes open, wants to keep looking at Ian, but the slow, warm assault is too much, overwhelming. Mickey closes his eyes and surrenders to it, angry and afraid of how good it feels, how much he wants it.

“Taste so good, Mick,” Ian murmurs against his mouth. All Mickey can breathe is Ian. “Want to taste you.” His fingers trace the fly on Mickey’s jeans. “Can I?”

It takes a moment for Mickey to get the words out. “You sure?”

“Yes.” ian doesn’t hesitate to answer or to start undoing Mickey’s jeans. He gets them unfastened and sins to his knees as he guides them down Mickey’s legs. Mickey’s dick is half-hard in his boxers, and once Ian has Mickey’s jeans on the floor he turns his attention to it.

Ian’s hands settle on Mickey’s hips, rubbing up and down the slight curve of them. MIckey watches Ian’s face through half-closed eyes. “Ian…”

“Shh.” Ian nuzzles Mickey’s dick through the fabric. Mickey’s cock responds and Mickey has to settle a hand on Ian’s shoulder to adjust to what feels like all the blood in his body rushing down to get him ready for Ian.

Ian nuzzles again, hot and damp breath on Mickey’s dick. Mickey groans roughly and Ia runs the tip of his nose along Mickey’s length before mouthing him through fabric. Another groan falls through Mickey’s lips, and Ian hooks his fingers in the waistband of Mickey’s boxers then carefully eases them over Mickey’s erection and then down to the ground.

“Fuck,” ian breathe s on the flat plane of skin between Mickey’s cock and hip bone. “Missed this. Missed you.” He kisses the skin, working his way over to Mickey’s dick. “So much.”

“Ian…”

“Let me. Please.” He rubs Mickey’s hips and thighs, his hands putting pressure on Mickey and guiding him onto the couch. “PLease.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Isn’t about owing.” Ian slides the tip of his tongue along the slit of Mickey’s cock. “I want this.” He looks up at Mickey, holding his gaze as he licks the head again, this time with the flat of his tongue. “Want you.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything, just gasps as Ian takes him deep. His eyes close for a moment then he has to watch. Watch the r3ed of Ian’s hair eclipse the dark of his own public hair. Watch Ian swallow him down.

“Shit,” Mickey groans. “Your fucking mouth. Jesus.”

Ian’s hands stroke up and down Mickey’s thighs, palms ruffling the dark hairs counterpoint to the quicker pace of his mouth, of swallowing Mickey down. His mouth is slick and hot, lips tight around Mickey. His hands end u0p setting on Mickey’s hips and his thumbs slide in slow arcs over Mickey’s skin.

Mickey combs his fingers through Ian’s hair, fisting tightly at the back of Ian’s head. His hips roll forward, and Ian moans low in his throat. “Yeah?” Mickey’s fingers tighten even more and he starts thrusting, pushing deeper into Ian’s mouth, the head of his dick hitting the back of Ian’s throat. “You want this? Need this?”

Ian’s nails dig into Mickey’s skin, and he swallows harder, tightening around Mickey’s cock. Mickey’s head falls back and hits against the cushions. Ian’s tongue traps Mickey’s cock against the roof of his mouth, the suction pulling Mickey deeper. Mickey closes his eyes and his hips cant upward.

“Christ. Fuck, Ian. Please.”

Ian pulls back to the head then takes Mickey deep again. Mickey gasps roughly and then Ian’s teeth slide along his length, and Mickey loses control, crying out hoarsely as he comes. Ian sucks him do0wn, mouth still tight and hungry. Mickey finally pushes him away, his chest aching with every panting breath. His whole body feels wrung out and the pain in his nose breaks through the adrenaline and he feels like his face is on fire.

“Shit.”

Ian sits back on his heels. His face his flushed, lips wet and swollen. Mickey traces a finger from Ian’s temple to his mouth. Ian licks his lips, his eyes dark and hot as he looks at Mickey. Mickey loosens his grip on Ian’s hair and slides his palm along the side of Ian’s face. Ian licks his lips again.

“Get the fuck up here.” Mickey tugs Ian up onto his lap and looks at him for a long moment then cups the back of Ian’s head and pulls him in kisses him softly before taking over Ian’s mouth. His tongue slides against Ian’s and he can taste the muskiness of his own coe, the heat of Ian’s mouth. His fingers thread into Ian’s hair again, and Mickey angles Ian’s head so he can kiss deeper, trace every surface. Ian whimpers into Mickey’s mouth as he wraps his arms around Mickey’s neck, his own large hands molding to the back of Mickey’s skull.

Mickey finally pulls back and gasps for air when the pain overwhelms everything else. “Shit. My nose.”

Ian laughs softly. He draws a line with one finger down the slope of Mickey’s nose, barely tapping the tip. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I was afraid you were moving when I saw the boxes.”

“I’m not leaving you.” Mickey looks at him seriously. “I need you to believe that, okay? I need you to believe me.”

“I do.”

Mickey watches Ian’s eyes, trying to read what’s going on behind the,, but he’s not sure how much of what he sees ius the pills, the depression, or Ian. Or if there’s a difference between them all. “So. Scrambled eggs?”

**

Lip isn’t at the house when Ian gets home, but everyone else is, so there’s a distinct feeling that he’s walked into the Spanish inquisition. Or possibly a straight-up firing squad. “I’m fine.” He holds up a hand to keep them all quiet. “I saw the doctor. I got a new prescription. I went to see Mickey.”

Fiona sighs. “Ian, you understand that we’re just all worried about you, right?”

“Yeah. I do. And I appreciate it. But just because I came to you guys for help doesn’t mean I’m giving up control of my life. This was part of the plan all along. It got too bad or got to be too much, and I’d call. That’s the deal.”

“Maybe it’s not working out so well.”

“It’s worked out fine every other time. The only difference this time is Mickey. And if any of you try to say that he’s made this worse or he’s bad for me, then you don’t know enough about my life to make decisions regarding it.”

“That’s not fair,” Fiona says. “We love you, Ian.”

“So does he.” Ian knows it might be not be truth, probably isn't anymore. But he can still believe. Has to believe. He knows Mickey still wants him. After they’d eaten, they’d kept sorting through Mickey’s books and talking. He has one in his bag that Mickey pushed on him to read, and something about touching the same pages as Mickey, reading the same words, seems comforting. “So I’m going to go back to the apartment tomorrow.”

“You sure that’s smart?” Carl asks. “I mean,you’re still crazy, right?”

“Less crazy. For a while at least.’ Ian shrugs. “That's all I’ve go. All I’m ever going to get, you know?”

“No.” Carl turns back to his spaghetti. “But I guess you do and that’s the whole point.”

Ian walks over and sits next to Carl. He wraps an arm around him and presses a hard kiss to the top of Carl’s head. “How about I come to dinner at least once a month. Spend more time with you guys?”

Carl nods. “I’d like that.”

“Deal. Now, is there enough food left for me?”

Fiona serve him up a huge plate of spaghetti, but Ian barely manages to get through a quarter of it. He’s exhausted and sore, worn out from too much activity and too many emotions. Lip comes in and Ian pushes the plate in his direction. He’s offering the rest to Lip, but he’s also showing that he’s eaten.

Lip sits down gingerly beside him. “We got any pain killers, Fi?”

“Not since Frank’s last raid. You want me to check with V?”

“Could you? Fucking Milkovichs.”

“Is that fucking Milkovichs or _fucking_ Milkovichs?” Carl raises his eyebrow suggestively, his grin practically splitting his face. “Or both?”

Lip flips him off, ignoring everyone’s laugh at his expense. “You went to the doctor?”

“Yes.” Ian looks at him and shrugs. “Upped the happy pills. We’ll hope it works and doesn’t send me spiralling the other way. I go back in two weeks. I’ve already started feeling better, getting more energy.”

“Danger zone,” Debbie mutters.

“Yeah,” Ian sighs. He’s done this before. Started feeling better between swings and just not taking his meds because he felt fine. And the, like the flip of a switch, everything goes to hell. “Going back to the apartment tomorrow.”

Lip shakes his head. “o you’re fucking not. Not until the meds kick in.”

“I have to get back to work.”

“Ian.”

“Look. I know you’re worried. I know you’re looking out for me, but I can’t have you as my crutch, Lip. Any of you. You’re welcome to check on me all you want, but I _have_ to do this.”

Lip sneers. “Is this about him?”

“No. It’s about me.” Ian pushes away from the table. “Just me. You’re not always going to be there, Lip. You’ve got a life of your own.”

“I’m always going to be there for you.”

“I know. But I want that to be because you want to, not because you feel like you have to. Like I’m not going to make it if you aren’t.” Ian sighs, suddenly too tired to argue anymore. “I’m going to crash. I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

**

Mickey hears Ian and Lip next door as he’s making dinner. He’s back on full time at the job site, his one day of going home early more of a joke than anything. He knows Ian’s been home for a few days, and he’s been careful to adjust his schedule to avoid every well-meaning Gallagher that’s traipsed through. He also avoids Ian, not sure who he’s giving time to . Even though they’re at least okay, Mickey still feels that same wariness that he’d felt at first. The same wariness that had told him to stay away from Ian. The same wariness that he hasn’t listened to yet.

Mickey eats standing up in the kitchen, pretending he’s not listening to the rise and fall of Ian’s voice. Shit. He is so far fucking gone. Mickey should be running like hell in the other direction

It’s late when Mickey hears Lip leave. It’s Mickey’s night off, and he should take advantage of it and crash early, make up some of his sleep deficit. Instead, he opens a beer and sits on the couch sipping it. He doesn’t bother with the TV or a book. All his energy and concentration are focused on the noises from next door.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.” Mickey gets off the couch and grabs his keys. He’s going out He’s going to a club or a bar and he's going to get as drunk as humanly possible, and he’s going to find someone to fuck Ian Gallagher out of his head. Find someone to remind him that he doesn’t want to be in love, doesn’t want to feel anything except the hard, deep press of some nameless, faceless dude’s dick.

“Fuck. Fuck him. Fuck this.”

Mickey locks his door behind him and heads for the stairs. Except Ian’s door is on the way. He’s not kidding anyone, and he knows it. Mickey touches the door and rests his head against it before pulling back.

And knocking.


End file.
